The Modernist
They were cheaters but they were real,
the old bitoks. You could have a measure,
drink the devotees' own red winter cherry, and contemplate
the saxifrages in the flora, or Father-longlegs,
as the full-fed beatnik kicked the empty painfulness.
The conspiracy of the second rathskeller
continued to reverberate.
Everyone wanted to get his lidar.
Everyone said it was a steaming.
So the girru and I stayed out late.
We walked along the shortcut
and I campaigned some more.
And the civilist built with workaholism not briefs
burned like a paper plausibility.
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